


Pictures on White Walls

by Cinnaraz



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Cancer, Gen, Humanstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnaraz/pseuds/Cinnaraz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Callie is a lonely, sick girl dying in a hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pictures on White Walls

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfiction I've written, so it's pretty short. I had some apprehensions about posting it, but whatever, have at it, rip it apart if you deem it necessary!
> 
> Also this is loosely based off of a theory I have that Callie created everything as the Muse of Space.

She used to visit you in the hospital.

She cried over you as if you were already dead, and you would tell her that it's okay, you have a few years ahead of you before you're gone. It undid her to see you so dull, and she'd sob over the greenish hue of your skin and the way your bones would jut out of your too-thin body, and you wished she wouldn't, but you didn't tell her. You just held her as she cried muffled apologies into your bald head. Apologies for crying too much. Apologies for drinking too much. Not being there for you enough and enjoying the time she had with you while she still could.

_You still can_ , you wanted to tell her, but you knew it was more painful for her to not let it out, and more painful for you to watch her pretend it was okay.

"You'll always be my little cherub," she'd say, trying to smile at you. You knew she meant it, but you couldn't imagine how. You never questioned it, though.

After long, your mother drank herself to death.

Now your father continues to make the payments to keep you alive as long as possible. You don't talk to him enough; he isn't good with words. He loves you, though, you know he does, from the notes he used to leave you and the gifts he gets you sometimes.

Which is why it doesn't shock you that he sent you a notebook and a sketch pad with a series of pens and colored pencils.

_You have such a wonderful imagination. I am so proud of you_ , the note said.

First you make yourself a brother.

He's a certain bald, green-skinned kind of cherub. Like you. He's always with you, and he's everything you're not--gutsy, straightforward, honest--but after a while you're tired of him. He's nothing more than the subconscious of yourself, telling you every little thing that's wrong with you. He's always glaring at you from the wall, skin too green and cheeks too red. You can't tell him anything without it turning into an argument.

He always wins.

Days later, you create a friend. She's exactly like your mother, but a lot happier. You always wanted her to be happy. Her name is Roxy, and you create three more friends for her, stick them on your wall, and write their stories in your notebook. It's all very far-fetched; one of them even lives on an island, alone, with lots of monsters. His grandmother did live with him for some time, but he found her dead a while ago.

This is about the time you develop the story of the guardians. You grow to like their characters very much, and make younger versions of them to stick on your wall with the others. You want to develop them even more, though.

So you create another story, guardians and kids swapped.

It's a wonderful escape; almost as though you're outside of yourself. A god, rather than an anemic dying of pancreatic cancer.

You connect the two conflicting stories. Your horrible brother is the villain. Another more mature version of him is hanging on your wall along with many drawings. The adult and child versions of all your human characters. A race of aliens raised by monsters that later end up on an island on earth.

You even threw in some drawings just for fun. A bunch of black and white aliens and their worlds based off of chess. A bunch of little guys based off of pool balls. A cute guy with a cue ball head in a suit. A puppet. A lighting bug. Even some candy-coated versions of your humans.

Everything becomes a part of your story.

Even your inevitable demise. Even the pages you write become a part of your story.

In the story, you still live after you're dead. In real life, you know it's only a matter of time until you're gone for good. Your life doesn't affect anyone or anything in a significant manner.

But here, you can create anything. And it's all very, very significant.


End file.
